Still-Life
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I tried kissing the painting and tried to roll around on my bed with L, but that got uncomfortable, and awkward, and it flat out didn’t work. Lea grew concerned about how I reacted to the painting, of course, along with others from the mental health realm – shrinks, nurses and other emotionally stressed-out experts. Many arrived from around the globe, causing all the hotels and motels and Bed & Breakfasts to be sold out in record time in the Greater New Haven area. Some shrinks were adept and witty, and approached my obsession from various angles - one even tried some hip-hop references, anything to engage me in a chat.
“I’m not a massive rap fan,” I said. “But I do enjoy Snoop Dogg.”
“Snoop’s an old school albeit impressive gent,” the doctor said. “A smooth charmer with his wild ganja habits, and he even cooks with Martha Stewart in more ways than one.”
“So, I’ve heard,” I said. “They’re quite the duo.”
“But tell me in detail about your L?”
“It’s Lilac,” I said, “Or just L.”
“Does she have a last name?” he asked, and I shook my head. “Does she speak often with you, Teddy?” 
“Oh, sure,” I said. “We flirt left and right.” 
“Does she arouse you?” the doctor asked.
I nodded.
“Do you ever...bring yourself to a type of climactic ...” 
“Once or twice,” I said. “It’s not your business, though.”
“Can I see the painting itself?” he asked. “I’d really like to study it with you as my special guide of lived experience and all your inherent wisdom.”
“There’s a long line for that,” I said, gesturing around me. “Take a number, sir.”
“Can you, at the very least, paint a better picture of her with your words?” 
“My sister, Lea, purchased Lilac at a Home Goods store in East Haven,” I said. “It cost thirty-five bucks plus that damn Connecticut sales tax. We found the painting in a discount bin, beside a poster of an annoyed James Dean, a wry River Phoenix and Marilyn Monroe spilling out of her own dress.”
“Yes,” the Doctor said. “I’ve always been fond of that last one.”
“Art historians say my L painting is nothing but a Modigliani rip-off.”
He nodded.
“Lea said it was only toe jam fried on an egg salad with cottage cheese and a dill pickle with home fries and a Maraschino cherry on top.’” 
“Sardonic sisters,” he said. “They’re everywhere nowadays.”
“Lea and I had trudged through several different stores - a Target and a Walgreens, and a Dollar General picking up more junk. My sister was finally moving out of the family house at twenty-five, and I’d now be left alone. My folks were constantly on the road – Mom was a highly respected touring cellist, and my Pop sold this special woolen T-shirts, underwear, hats, and socks out of his trunk of his restored 1985 gold Lincoln Town Car. They were both separated, I guess. Or so Mom told Lea five months ago and dad lives out of his vehicle in the Florida Panhandle region, not far from Tallahassee. My sister bought trash bags, Corn Pops, skim milk, a pink shower curtain, camping cups, a plastic sunflower, tampons, a Hershey bar, Elmer’s Glue, and two raspberry dishtowels before I spotted Lilac leaning against a wall.